


Everything!

by bandaran



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Flash Fic, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 03:11:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13402188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bandaran/pseuds/bandaran
Summary: Drunken shenanigans ensue after Stiles is called to pick up the Hale pack from a bar on the outskirts of town. A bar no one has ever heard of and struggles to remember going to.





	Everything!

Stiles is supposed to be studying for his AP Physics final. He is also supposed to be doing laundry, showering, taking vitamins, et cetra; not hauling ass across town to a bar that will inevitably stink like piss and – in certain small pockets of air – pot smoke. He’s never been to this particular dive before, because what the fuck would the point even be? Yeah, it’s a bar, and yeah, Scott is hot enough to get them both drinks if they _really_ wanted them, but Stiles prefers his drinking to be done alone watching Netflix. Well, he does and he doesn’t.

These rare cheap light beer and TV binges are the only reprieve he gets to himself after endless nights spent hunting down trolls and fey and crazy-ass goddamn gnomes, one of which took a shit on the hood of his Jeep last month. So, despite his being under the legal limit – I hope you’re enjoying those roads built in the eighties America because they’re the reason that being eighteen means you can smoke, get married and join the military, but can’t order a glass of wine at a restaurant – Stiles is not as into going out to get hammered in public as some other high school seniors, like his friends, apparently, are.

Oh, they invited him, sure, but knew he would say no and while Scott may not game the sober driver system, Erica _totally_ does. So here he comes, in his pajimjams, to cart however many rowdy drunk assholes there are currently, back home.

He pulls into the lot and the place is a dump. There’s cracks in the asphalt and blinking streetlamps and a continuous, pulsating synth shaking what looks like an old meat packing plant. For all the _super hip dudes_ smoking outside, Stiles’s assessment is probably spank on and he’s willing to put down money this place hosts poetry slams and trivia moderated by a monotone hipster on weekdays. Stiles flashes his ID to the bouncer, irritated at having to fish his wallet out of his sweats and the ripping Velcro seal – oh yes, my child, he rocks a Velcro wallet – draws the attention of a couple people on their way out. If they make a face, Stiles is too grumpy to notice.

Finding Scott is a whole other thing. He doesn’t after a few laps and a sweep of the bathrooms. Since Scott and Erica’s crew is made up of creatures of the night, Stiles finds a stool and plants himself on it. They’ll catch his scent eventually and he’s peering at his watch to mark time. They’ve got fifteen minutes to realize he’s here before, well, before he does _something._ They could’ve called an Uber, except none of them have any money and their big, scary alpha cut Erica and Isaac off from his bank account to make a point about frivolous spending.

That had been one of the better pack meetings, at least for Stiles; he has a fucking job, unlike some people.

He orders a seltzer with lime and scrolls through his phone. No new messages and isn’t that just typical? He texts the group thread that he’s at the bar if there are any fuck-twats that would like to be brought home and not sleep in a gutter tonight. Just as he shoves his phone back into his pocket, he’s hugged from behind and he chokes on his drink. Everyone thinks its so _fucking funny_ sneaking up on him and he’s at a severe disadvantage in this dark hole of grinding music.

“Scott, get off,” Stiles snaps over the music, practically yelling to be heard even though he probably doesn’t have to.

“Yousmell like rain,” says not-Scott and Stiles awkwardly spins on his stool because the person behind him won’t let go.

“ _OhmyGod_ ,” Stiles stammers, flushing all the way down his body.

So, this is fucked for three reasons:

One – Derek Hale has never touched alcohol, any alcohol, in front of the pack _ever_ and he _wreaks_ of it.

Two – Derek Hale’s a crazy shut-in that hates the world and all those in it and seems to have made it his personal goal in life to be the clammiest, dampest, wet blanket of all time.

Three – Derek Hale does not touch Stiles.

The last one is sort of true and sort of not. Derek scents everyone equally and it is the only time he will come within five feet of Stiles and there is a reason for that as well, just one this time. When Stiles was sixteen it had gotten weird between them once – _one time_. Unfortunately, that one time seemed to have scarred Derek eternally and Stiles can’t quite blame him for that, even if he didn’t really get it then, ever since he hit the legal age, he’s been starting to understand it more and more.

Long story short: there had been rain and mud and a _mauling_ and Stiles could _not_ go home to the Sheriff looking like he had just walked off the set of _House of 1000 Corpses_. He had showered at Derek’s apartment, Derek had seen him naked, frantic yelling on both sides ensued and suddenly Stiles was no longer allowed in the loft unless the rest of the pack was there with him. To be fair, it became a blanket rule. No one under eighteen, pack or otherwise, could venture up unless a meeting was called or there was an emergency.

And when he finally turned? Nothing changed. Or it did? He didn’t know. He never visited Derek Hale’s apartment without a reason. Derek liked space. Stiles, after living in a pack for what felt like eons, could appreciate his boundaries.

Also, he didn’t trust himself. It’s not like his gigantic, stupid crush on Derek was a well-kept secret. The pack could smell that shit all over him whether he cared to hide it or not, which meant, most importantly of all, that _Derek_ could smell the spike in his arousal every time – _every time_ – they were in the same room together. His classmates liked to think high school was an embarrassing petri dish of changing hormones and bodily functions? Try all of that plus all of your friends being wolves (or whatever) with the ability to read your mind by the way you smell. Yeah. Shit’s rough.

This is one the more surreal moments of Stiles’s life thus far. He almost hadn’t recognized Derek his face is so relaxed. In retrospect, a gallon of liquor will do that to a person.  

“You, uh, smell like a distillery,” Stiles chuckled back nervously, “Where is everyone? I’m supposed to be studying, not wolf babysitting. Actually, that’s usually your job.”

“I’m not vurry nice toyou,” Derek slurs, heavy lids drooping.

“Hard to take it personally when you’re a spinysaurus to literally everyone ever.”

Derek shrugs and ends up shrugging Stiles right along with him. This is so not the time to get turned on and Stiles fights it, he really does; however, he’s merely but a man and there is only so much of this kind of proximity he can stand. Derek’s arms are huge and heavy around him and he looks to have given up on any more talking in favor of snuffling in the crook of Stiles’s neck.

Flinching away from the tickle of Derek’s beard Stiles snaps out, “You _cannot_ be this drunk. How is this even possible?”

Derek hums softly into his shoulder and suddenly Isaac is pushing through the crowd and Stiles has never been so glad to see him in his life.

“What the fuck dude?!” Stiles warbles, because Isaac doesn’t look drunk at all.

“This isn’t my fault,” Isaac hisses back instantly.

“What’s happening right now, why is Derek all – touchy?”

“I don’t know! We came to pick up Scott and them, but they’d already left by the time we got here, so me and Derek stayed for a beer and then this weird music started up and right when we were about to leave he started acting all weird.”

Scott McCall will die by Stiles’s hand come tomorrow morning. He just has to figure the logistics of dragging two hundred pounds of sauced alpha out of this bar first.

“Derek?” Stiles tries, but getting Derek’s attention is fruitless. He’s staring off into space and it’s a little terrifying how unlike himself he’s being; like his brain’s been put on airplane mode. Stiles cups his cheek and guides his light eyes toward himself, “Did you drink something weird?” he mutters and Derek doesn’t answer, but the saucer-like dilation of his pupils does.

“You think he’s been like… roofied or something?” Isaac asks.

“You’re the one that was with him!” retorts Stiles. Before Stiles can berate him further a horn goes off and at first, his mind dismisses it as the kind of blaring sound that might go off at any rave. The second time he hears it, it doesn’t sound right and Isaac claps both hands over his ears. It’s not an electronic noise, it’s real and Stiles spots a woman with rooster feathers in her hair blowing into an ox horn mounted on a dais in the adjoining room.

Isaac shakes his head like he’s dizzy and trying to recompose himself. He says, looking all moony, “I’ve got a thing for Boyd,” and is subsequently horrified at what he’s just said.

Stiles tries to ask him what the fuck? What exits him is, “Sometimes I jerk off to Taylor Swift songs – _oh my God, no._ ”

Derek mutters something too, but it’s muffled in Stiles’s shoulder, his hot breath raising goose bumps on Stiles’s skin.

Immediately, Stiles stands, and Derek manages to keep his feet under him and leans into him for support. Not trusting himself to speak, Stiles thrusts a frantic finger at the door and hopes his expression of _we gotta boogie gang_ translates. Isaac helps him drag Derek out of the bar just as a fog of glittering smoke starts falling from the eaves. Together they body their alpha into the back seat of the Jeep and then climb in themselves. Neither tries to say a word until they’re back within town limits.

It’s Isaac that breaks the silence and he sounds as spooked as he looks, “I don’t think I know what that place is called.”

He’s right. There was no sign on the entrance and Stiles hadn’t even noticed. He tosses his phone to Isaac, “Read the text Scott sent to me.”

“Um,” sounds Isaac, thumbing through his messages, “the last thing he sent was something about Taco Bell?”

“That’s from yesterday,” Stiles huffs, “the one from an hour ago.”

“There isn’t one,” and they trade brief, dreadful looks. But… Isaac’s right. Did Stiles actually remember getting a text from anyone? He breaks down the night, he was taking notes off a YouTube video on the Leidenfrost effect and then – he was in the Jeep and had just assumed Scott was in trouble? He’d seen a TV show with his dad about the way the brain processes information, that it automatically starts filling in gaps and making assumptions as soon as a person looks at something familiar. That was why changes to a familiar space were more difficult to pick up on or recognition might happen at a delay. This was a familiar scenario filling in gaps as his thoughts were manipulated by a foreign source. Right? That could explain part of it maybe.

“I’m not sure why Derek said we had to go,” says Isaac grimly, “We were watching TV and he came back from the kitchen and said they had to be picked up.”

“Call Melissa,” Stiles orders, working the gearshift. To their collective immense relief, Melissa says that Scott just got in. She sent him to bed to sleep off whatever he had gotten into because he was talking strange, telling her things no mother needed to hear from her son. She’s got Erica and Boyd too and put them to bed in the guest room after a scorching hot scolding about driving under the influence; there will be groundings all around. Stiles didn’t know if she had the power to ground kids that weren’t hers, but who would try to tell her otherwise? She and Derek and John Stilinski seemed to have gotten their parenting coordination down to a science over the last couple years.

Oh man, they are so screwed when Stiles’s dad finds out about the drinking. Sure, he’ll let Stiles have a few beers in the safety and privacy of their own home – sheriff or not, when John was their age the limit was eighteen – but drinking in public? He’s put Erica in the drunk tank before and has made it clear to all of them there will be no special treatment should he or any deputies catch them at it again.

For once, weirdly enough, it’s not Stiles at the forefront of the mischief. How is he the most responsible person in the pack right now? And Derek getting a beer with Isaac? At a _bar_? SO much about that makes no sense. If Stiles were a jealous person, which he is, he’d have worked up more of a steam over it. Which he has.

“Did you drink anything?” Stiles asks immediately and it’s too strange to hear himself talking like one of the grownups.

“No,” snaps out of Isaac, “Just water.”

Well, at least that’s no totally out of the ordinary. He tells Isaac to check in with the girls, but they can both feel through the pack bond that Lydia and Allison aren’t in any sort of danger. Lydia’s annoyed at being called so late, but she and Allison are having a girls’ night at her parent’s lake house. Stiles pulls to a stop at a light and scrubs his face.

The pack bond. Fuck.

“Oh my God, fuck, duh,” he says bonking his head on the steering wheel.

“What?”

“Derek knew because of the bond,” Stiles grinds out, “he’s the alpha, of course, he knew.” Derek’s pack senses are bumped up to eleven _because_ he’s the alpha. If Scott and Erica and Boyd were in trouble, he would be the first to feel it, would know where to find them. How many times has he just shown up randomly in the thick of danger?

“How did you know?” Isaac asks, but that question is already whirling around in Stiles’s brain and he doesn’t have an answer. Isaac’s eyes get all squinty. It’s an annoying cartoony quirk he has every time he’s figured something out or thinks he has. “You love him,” he says ruefully.

“Shut up,” Stiles grumbles and guns it when the light changes.

“I thought you were just hot for him.”

“Dude, no, we are not going down this road.”

Isaac sighs overdramatically, “Everyone knows it. Never figured you were actually in love with him, though.”

Stiles chances a glance back at Derek, but he’s all but passed out, face smushed against the window.

“That’s sort of nice,” Isaac continues, “He never said it, but Erica was sure he was more into you than you were into him. That’s why he never tried anything. He’s got a pretty damning track record for getting involved with humans that didn’t really give a shit about him.”

“Ok, firstly, this is none of your business,” Stiles doesn’t need to see the side-eye he’s getting to know that in the pack everything is everyone’s business all the time, “and two: as far as I’m concerned, tonight never happened. Obviously, some weird faerie shit is going on at that bar that’s making everyone crazy and I seriously doubt that they will remember any of it tomorrow. We will take this to our graves, understand?”

“Then this is a safe space,” says Isaac, “you know one of my – private things – and I know yours. It’d be nice to vent.” He’s not looking at Stiles, but out the windshield, his face withdrawn some and at that moment, Stiles realizes they are in the same shitty boat. Maybe Isaac’s side of that boat is a little shittier since the person he’s pining over is already mated.

“You like Boyd?” Stiles asks softly.

Isaac’s jaw tenses and then he says, “Yeah.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“Since when?”

“Middle school.” Isaac scratches his nape, ruffling his curls, “He’s… I dunno. Quiet, calm. He gets some of my… stuff with my dad, y’know? His mom was probably worse than my dad.”

Stiles adds on slyly, “He’s pretty hot too.”

And Isaac chuckles, “Yeah, that doesn’t help.”

“You ever think about, like, talking to him and Erica about it? Maybe they’d be cool with it.”

“You ever think of telling Derek?” counters Isaac, eyebrows rising expectantly.

“That’s… painfully fair.”

“Why don’t you? There’s nothing stopping you.”

Stiles lets out a breath, watches the shadows cast by overhanging street lamps flicker by. He couldn’t talk about it with Scott. He just couldn’t, because as much as he loves the kid, they just don’t mesh at every seam. He’s watched Scott’s eyes glaze over on less sensitive topics and while that hurts sometimes, it’s just that way things are. No relationship is perfect and demanding it be would only end up disappointing them both. He’d never have expected it, having never really talked to Isaac about anything personal in the past, but maybe there was something to this mini Lonely-Hearts thing unfolding between them, despite any past tension.

“Safe space?” he asks tentatively and Isaac nods, “At the risk of sounding like a CW teen drama – I’m, I dunno, not like _good enough_.” Isaac arches a brow at him. “Like, I had this stupid fantasy of turning eighteen and asking him out, I thought my age was the only problem. And I was gonna do it like I bought movie tickets and I was going to ask, and then everyone was leaving after the meeting was over and I – I saw him standing there and I just couldn’t do it. I don’t think I chickened out, maybe a little, but I had this moment where it just wasn’t right. There’s too much other shit now. And I thought he might take it the wrong way, like I just wanted to get laid now that it’s legal and apparently, that’s exactly what he’d of thought.”

Isaac mulls this over and it’s a little daunting. Scott never _mulled._ And then Isaac asks, “What movie?”

A snort of laughter puffs out of him and he says, “That Alamo in Hamilton was screening _Mystery Science Theatre 3000._ ”

“He hates it when people talk during movies.”

“Yeah,” chuckles Stiles.

“It wasn’t your moment,” Isaac says with a shrug.

“That’s the stupid part. I have no clue when my moment is, or if it already happened and I missed it? Maybe it would’ve been better if I’d just asked him out before my birthday, like maybe then he might not have taken it the wrong way? But that wouldn’t have worked either,” Stiles grouses, brain arguing with his mouth.

“You keep saying ‘ask him out’. I don’t think that’s the right way to do it.”

Stiles backs into a spot in the parking garage under Derek’s building, kills the engine and sits. He cuts a sideways look at Isaac. His mind is already whirring and his face is hot and his palms are sweaty so he wipes them on his sweatpants. “What do you mean?” he asks, but he thinks he already knows and wants to hear Isaac’s version.

“Um, ok, I’m gonna go a little wide with it, but think about it. Derek’s not exactly gay or straight, it’s not that clear-cut. If I didn’t know him or care, I’d just think he’s weird about sex, but that’s not really true? I think it’s really intimate to him, especially after, you know. Kate sort of turned it into something that she could take from him, not something they did together. So, obviously, he’s really guarded about it. And I’m probably not supposed to betray the trust, but I don’t think you’d have shown up in that bar if you were _only_ lusting after him. I mean, Derek knew Scott was in trouble, so _you_ knew Scott was in trouble, that’s got to be some sort of special bond thing; you’re just a human, how else could you have known?

“But, Derek, he just – he’s so into you. You’re the first person he jumps to protect and I think that’s why he never initiated anything. He doesn’t want to be wrong, I don’t think he could take it if it turned out you were lukewarm. Plus, there was the whole age difference and he’s got to be the adult _all the time_. And the part that sucks the most is that he’s not even that _old_. To Melissa and your dad he’s a kid too but has all the responsibility they do and it’s not fair. I guess I’m trying to say asking him out is too shallow. You said there’s too much that happened and you’re probably right. I think you’ve got to talk to him about it, you know, like meet him halfway between being a grownup and a kid.”

Stiles nods. They sit quietly for a bit before Stiles says, “You’re not as much of a shallow douche as I thought.”

“You either,” Isaac says with a small smile.

“Did we just become best friends?”

“Yup.”

“Do you want to go do karate in the garage?”

“Yup.”

A garbled ‘yup’ comes from the back seat and he and Isaac shatter into laughter.

Around snorts, Isaac reaches back to poke Derek’s knee, “You awake?” and gets a slurred string of sounds that mean nothing. “He’s toasted. I think your secret’s still safe.”

Getting Derek to the elevator is harder than shoving him into the car. Some motor skills seemed to have cracked through whatever magical faerie drugs are still in his system turning him into a two-year-old with grabby hands. He pushes the wrong buttons on the elevator’s panel and Isaac and Stiles erupt in a volcano of ‘No!’ and try to force his hands to his sides and he starts _giggling_. This is a fucked up night of firsts.

They struggle to get the keys from their alpha’s ungodly tight jeans whilst juggling him between them. Isaac finds them and forces them into the lock and Derek starts listing to one side. Stiles grabs him by the waist, cursing all of Creation, because fuck he’s _so_ heavy.

“No more protein powder for you, big guy,” Stiles grunts as Isaac pushes himself under Derek’s other arm. Maybe Derek has a flash of lucidity because the mushiness of his face fades for a split second – only Derek Hale could come out of a brownout just long enough to be indignant at something Stiles said – and his eyebrows slant together. Stiles feels his guts slide out of him and then Derek bursts out in a fit of laughter.

“Jesus,” Stiles chuckles.

They dump him on the couch, but he doesn’t stay upright and flops to the side, still chortling at nothing.

“As much as I’d be cool leaving him like this,” Stiles says, catching his breath, “We gotta pump him full of water, right?”

“He’s a wolf,” but Isaac looks unsure. Without knowing what did this to him, Stiles is just going to assume it might have been some kind of souped-up faerie liquor. Even if he was drugged, water can’t be a bad idea. The first cup they bring him, he swats out of Isaac’s hand and thank fuck it was a plastic cup because Stiles is sure a glass would’ve shattered.

Stiles roots through cabinets until finding the water bottle he’s seen poking out of Derek’s gym bag. Once it full they push it on Derek, Isaac trying his hardest to hold him down while Stiles aims the makeshift sippy-cup at Derek’s mouth.

“C’mon, dude, just – argh, Isaac, Jesus –,”

“He’s really strong, _Stiles_ ,” Isaac barks, “you try overpowering him.”

“He’s fucking wasted –,”

“It’s drunk strength!”

“Yer – sopretty,” Derek garbles, pawing at Stiles’s face.

“I know, I’m flattered, please drink, you’re gonna be sooo fucked tomorrow.” Is it totally childish that Stiles actually is bashful as fuck to hear Derek throwing around flirty compliments? Yes. No. Whatever.

“Siles,” Derek says fondly, staring at him with huge, glassy, red-rimmed eyes.

“I’m here,” Stiles says offering the bottle again.

“Yer Stile,” grins Derek.

“Yeah, I am, and you’re Derek. A very drunk Derek that needs to drink a lot of water.”

“Imsatire,” pouts Derek, eyes dropping and head lulling.

“Heyheyhey,” Stiles says, guiding his chin back up, “We’re gonna put you to bed, you just have to drink a few of these.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Nooo.”

Derek opens his mouth and is a grumpy baby about it. Soon he forgets why he’s upset and sucks down the bottle in less than a minute. They’re able to convince him to drink three more bottles worth until Isaac, and Stiles does not want to know how he knows, says Derek’s got to pee. They get him to the bathroom and push him in the direction of the toilet, hoping instinct will kick in, because neither of them is about to get hands-on for this.

Instinct, however, is out to lunch and Derek just sort crumples on the floor gasping with insane laughter. Isaac thuds his forehead on the doorjamb and lets his eyes drift closed in defeat. It’s hard to be annoyed by any of this, at least for Stiles, because it’s so goddamn cute. Derek’s cuteness levels are usually restricted to looking uncomfortable when someone makes a dirty joke, being moody and reading with those stupid-hot glasses on. Why does he even need glasses? Stiles just assumed he wears them as a form of passive-erotic torture. Seeing him on his side dying of hysterical laughter at literally nothing is a whole new ball game and Stiles is totally down to participate even if it takes all night to get him settled.

Stiles crouches beside him and shakes his shoulder lightly, “Hey man, you gotta get your shit together,” he can’t help chuckling as he says it, “seriously, if you piss yourself you will never hear the end of it. I will be there on your deathbed whispering the details of this night to you and the last thing you’ll hear before meeting Jesus is that you pissed yourself that one time while laying on the bathroom floor like a sexy-fetal-sloth-baby.”

Derek fucking _loses it._ Stiles had thought he was gone before, but no, that was but a precursor to Derek’s long-repressed _ugly_ laughter. It’s mostly him sucking in air and releasing none of it, his face turning beet-red and tears squeezing from his eyes.

“You're just making it worse!” cries Isaac, but he doesn’t look near as frustrated as he sounds.

“C’mon bud,” Stiles says, attempting to haul Derek upright, but manages only to get him on his back. For the moment, he gives up trying to move him anymore. He’s been to enough stupid high school parties to know that sometimes you just gotta give a messed-up person their space until they either fall asleep or are undrunkified enough to function. Besides, he doubts Derek needs his stomach pumped. Like Isaac said, he’s a wolf and seems lucid enough now that they’d know it if anything was truly wrong.

Stiles pulls out his phone to text his dad. This is starting to feel like a crashing on the couch situation. He taps out, _Derek’s drunk and in need of babysitting, gonna hang out with Isaac tonight to make sure he’s ok._

Shortly after he hits send he gets his dad’s incredulous reply, _Derek drinks?_

_apparently._

_never around you until now I assume_

_cook up a chillshroom papa bear. It’s all new to me_

_if he tries anything i'll have his car impounded_

_omg dad no. he’s harmless, really, like im pretty sure hes melted_

_nothing about the hale kid is harmless. Just be safe and text me in the morning_

_Kk_

 

Stiles may have had his own version of Derek’s current state a few months back and his dad may have been around to witness it. Hell, they had been throwing back sake – it’s better for his dad’s digestion than beer, ok? – and watching TV and Stiles just sort of blurted some things out. Things about a lot of stuff, in his defense, but also some things about Derek and his undying love for the man. By the second bottle, it gets a little fuzzy. The sheriff took it about as well as any parent would hearing that their kid was constantly making googoo eyes at a person six years their senior. A person that had been on and off police radar for a myriad of reasons over the past few years at that.

He had reassured his dad, once the hangover had worn off, that nothing had happened and nothing had. Aside from the totally accidental naked thing, all that had ever passed between them since meeting were a couple, well, _looks_. And he’d begged his dad not take anything out on Derek, because until about an hour ago, Stiles had assumed it was all on him; completely one-sided.

“You’re an adult now kiddo,” he dad had said sternly, “and you're new to it. There’s a lot that’s happened to Derek Hale that you’ve got no roadmap for. I’m not telling you to stay away; we both know you’ll do the opposite of what I tell you, but he’s a lot of person, especially to someone who’s never had a person before.”

And maybe that had reified some of Stiles’s own doubts.  He glances at Derek; his giggles have petered out some and he’s looking up at Stiles through hazy eyes that are so full, brimming with so… so _much_ , that it’s a little hard to hold his gaze. He doesn’t look away but is struck with the notion that neither of them is good enough for the other. It’s a useless thought; the type of zen kōan he’d expect out of Deaton.

“You ready to get to the toilet?” Stiles asks with a touch more affection than he'd meant to.

“This mybafrom,” Derek slurs back.

“Yeah, and it’s definitely the cleanest bathroom I’ve ever been in,” Stiles nods, looking around.

“He makes us clean the whole place on Sundays,” huffs Isaac.

“What a slave-driver,” Stiles replies flatly, “letting you live here rent free and demanding you clean up around the house.” He can’t imagine Derek sitting still while the others are working around him. They both know good and well he rolls up his sleeves to pitch in and that he might very well be doing most of the chores himself. Derek Hale is nothing if not a glutton for punishment.

Isaac shrugs, but he’s smiling keenly, “He buys us pizza after.”

“Mhmm. Help me get him to the crapper.”

Isaac comes off the door frame and together they hoist Derek up and walk him that remaining few steps to the toilet.

“Pee,” Derek mutters. He’s helping more than hindering now probably because there’s a liter of liquid sitting in his bladder. He fumbles with clumsy fingers trying to undo his belt and is failing miserably, a whine in his throat that Stiles has only heard from Scott and Isaac.

“Ok, dude, you’re his beta, this is all you,” Stiles says backing away.

“You’re the one who’s werewolf married to him, you do it!” Isaac snaps back.

“Oh my God, that’s why I can’t, you get that right? Huge violation. Erica’s always saying there’s no boundaries in the pack; haven’t you like, seen him naked before?”

Isaac’s eyes widen, “That’s _not_ how it works, Stiles. We don’t all strip down and play video games just because it’s Thursday!”

“I am more than happy to jump on these grenades when and if, after a civilized conversation, Derek and I – like, whatever. _But I can’t_ _have that conversation if I’ve seen him take a whizz without his knowing._ ”

Isaac flaps his arms and growls. His pulls Derek to face him and starts undoing his buckle while Derek blinks confusedly and sways.

“ _Stop_ getting turned on by this,” snarls Isaac and Stiles decides he should wait outside and examine his thoughts. He doesn’t do a ton of examining and does do a lot of dispelling.

Derek emerges from the bathroom, very shirtless, a few minutes later, the toilet flushing behind him. He instantly steps Stiles into the wall, or rather, corrals him against the wall he’s already leaning against. Derek’s forehead rests on Stiles’s shoulder, arms at his sides, and he mutters something about being tired and achy. There’s a thin sheen of sweat coating his skin, dampening the dark hair on his chest.

“Uh,” Stiles manages, “yeah, totally. Bed. Good idea.”

Isaac appears in the hall, haggard, with Derek’s shirt folded over one arm; he says, “He tried to take off all his clothes.”

“I see that,” Stiles chuckles nervously. Derek is so close, like closer than he has ever gotten, and it’s definitely because he’s drunk or whatever and lacking inhibition, but it’s more than Stiles’s brain can process at the moment. Heat is radiating off every plain of his body and his skin’s tanned and soft and his hair smells like soap. Stiles lays his palms across Derek’s shoulders to gently push him back and say, “Let’s go to bed, ok?”

Blearily, eyes half-lidded and bloodshot, Derek nods and kisses Stiles.

He’s not expecting it. He doesn’t know what the fuck to do or who the fuck he is and Derek’s mouth is tangy with the aftertaste of whatever he drank; sweet and full and dark like clover honey. It’s brief and Stiles doesn’t kiss back. Derek’s too gone to consent to this, to even be aware of what he’s doing and it… it hurts in a way. Stiles isn’t even certain he’s allowed to feel hurt by it. He’s kissed people before, but never like this, never so intimately, so privately and even though it’s nothing, really just a peck, there’s so much behind it; as if Derek’s thought of kissing him casually like this a thousand times, to the point that doing so while drunk is second nature.

Stiles doesn’t want this to be their first kiss. He wants it to be more, to be epic, as epic as any one of the dozens of supernatural scrapes they’d gotten into since Scott was bitten.

Isaac’s prattling off something strained and shepherding Derek away, toward the stairs and he doesn’t resist and Stiles just. He stands there, staring at nothing.

But these things aren’t like in the movies. His father had warned him and now some of the whimsy that’s clouded his judgment is being chipped away. What’s wrong with him? He’s being a fucking child. He should be ecstatic because fantasies are just that. Derek Hale isn’t some made up harlequin romance character, he’s real, he’s imperfect and so is Stiles, maybe even more so. Whatever was going on in that bar, at least from what research Stiles has done, it preyed on stresses and desires that already existed and amplified them. They’ve never seen Derek drink, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t want to or didn’t have a few pretty damn good reasons to.

For the first time in years, maybe ever, Derek let himself have a moment of weakness and gave in to himself. He wanted a drink and had one. He wanted to kiss Stiles and he did. And… and that’s ok.

Who is Stiles to say that kiss wasn’t epic? Or that the next one wouldn’t be even better?

Stiles takes the stairs two at a time until he’s in Derek’s room. Isaac’s already got him in bed and covered by a sheet, his boots lined neatly by the door.

“You ok?” Isaac asks gently, eyeing him.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, “I’m… great.”

He sits with Derek until he falls asleep and then tiptoes downstairs to pass out on the couch.

 

He’s woken by his shoulder being lightly jostled. It takes a couple seconds to remember he’s not at home, and when he does, he bolts upright, automatically wiping his chin in case of drool. The loft is swept with golden morning light so bright he has to knuckle his eyes.

“Whas go’n on?” he asks hoarsely. This place needs a humidifier desperately.

Derek’s sat across from him on the coffee table, holding out a steaming mug that smells suspiciously chocolatey. Wouldn’t coffee be the appropriate morning beverage of choice for a house guest? He didn’t remember telling Derek about caffeine not mixing well with his meds. He takes the cup and downs a few piping hot swigs as he collects himself.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Derek says, rubbing his eyes. He looks fucking terrible. Like just-got-shot-up-with-wolfsbane terrible. He doesn’t seem able to keep his eyes open more than a crack and they’re underlined by bluish shadows.

“Not a big deal,” Stiles says with a shrug. He should stay neutral until he knows how much Derek remembers, right? It takes insane willpower not to launch into a million probing questions.

“I’m – sorry about,” God, he looks so _pained_ it tugs on Stiles’s chest, “what happened.”

“To what are you referring?” Stiles chides. He can’t resist, the dark side is too strong.

Derek fixes him with a withering stare in response.

“It’s fine, really,” Stiles swallows, he eyes skating over the floor, “all of it. Was fine.”

“I don’t remember anything,” Derek says, but he’s clearly mortified and flushing fast.

“Um, well, there was a lot of giggling – which was unsettling, to say the least. And laying on the bathroom floor. And not being able to pee by yourself followed by a striptease I’m sure will haunt Isaac’s dreams for the rest of his life.”

Derek’s eyes drift closed and his head sinks into his hands. This must be all new territory for him and so far, self-disdain seems to be the most prevalent emotion. Stiles chews on his bottom lip. This is it man; time to flick that first domino and see how they fall.

“And, uh,” Derek’s face comes back up no doubt because he can hear the ratcheting of Stiles’s heart. Stiles wishes he’d have kept it down for this part. “I mean, no reason to dance around it, you sort of kissed me. In the hall. On the mouth. With your mouth. In the hall.”

Immediately, as if he was _anticipating_ something like this, Derek snaps out, “Stiles, I’m sorry. That’s inappropriate.”

“That is… definitely an adjective,” Stiles says, billowing air, “So before you totally shut down about this and we never speak of it again, I’m just gonna ask for like thirty seconds in which I’ll try to be as honest and brave as I possibly can.”

Derek watches him but says nothing, makes no indication he heard Stiles at all despite sitting three feet away and Stiles takes it as an affirmative because if he doesn’t do this now, he’s never going to. He sucks in a breath, lets it go and draws in one more for courage.

“You’re pretty fucked up,” Derek winces at that, “but not nearly as fucked up as me. I don’t _know_ anything. Like it’s stupid how much I thought I knew even yesterday compared to what I know now. I’m – I’m immature and naïve and stubborn and I didn’t have the balls to tell you how I felt. I’m not super sure I have the balls now, so this is gonna get a little word vomity. I want to think I understand you and what’s happened to you, how it affects you, but I don’t know as much as I think I do. I want to, though, and I’m not afraid of trying to get to a good place with you even if it means we have to fight a few times along the way. I actually kind of like fighting with you. I mean, not the fighting part, that part after I cool down and realize that you wouldn’t bother arguing with me if it didn’t come from somewhere, you know, fond I guess. I like listening to you. I like watching you read. And as a mild bonus, you’re mind-numbingly hot in jeans. I – fuck – I want to be with you. Maybe there isn’t more than that. I don’t really care what that means. You want to be buds and watch TV every weekend, that’s cool; you want to be werewolf married to me, I’m down for that. We can never touch if that’s what you want, or we can fuck for three days straight. All I ask is that you, just, you keep me around. Even when I’m being a shit, I’ll always make it up to you, I promise.”

Maybe his eyes are welling up a little, but whatever, this is turning way more emotional than he anticipated, “I just, I, fuck Derek, I’m fucking in love with you. There. Rant complete.”

Derek’s mouth thins and his hand grazes his chin before swiping up and down over his face.

“That was more than thirty seconds.”

“Yes,” Stiles breathes, “Yes it was. I think I’m gonna pass out.”

“Water?”

Stiles waves his hand to decline and struggles to catch his breath. A panic attack right now would not be the most romantic thing ever.

“I can pick you up at seven,” Derek says quietly and Stiles’s eyes rip up at him.

“Like… for a date?”

Derek nods.

“A date because you… want to date me?”

“No,” Derek says carefully, “I want to….” His eyes flicker around the room while he thinks and Stiles is ready to consider taking up smoking to belay his stress, until he says, a tiny smile creeping on to his mouth, “I want to spoil you.”

“Yeah?” shakes out of Stiles.

Nodding Derek says, “Yeah.” He stands from the table and straddles Stiles’s lap and Stiles is petrified. In what fucking universe does this happen? Derek must sense his hesitation because he gets a flash in his eyes like he thinks he’s misinterpreted something or crossed a line and Stiles tucks his hands under Derek’s thighs and pulls him in closer. He’s solid and heavy – and cutting off a little circulation, but who the fuck cares? – his scent bleeding from him and running with musk and sweat.

“You’re sure?” Stiles asks, stomach doing flips. Derek noses his own nose, teases his mouth without pressing their lips together.

“It’ll be hard,” offers Derek, voice dropping with the admission.

“It’s already kind of hard,” Stiles quips, grinning madly.

“I mean a relationship.”

“I know.”

A little more assertively he says, “We’ll go slow.”

“So slow you’ll see a slug zoom by and be like ‘slow down, children play here!’”

“Stiles.”

“I’m listening, I swear.”

Their second kiss is _everything_.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm supposed to be working on my new longer fic, but had to take a break from it sooo here's a quickie loosely based on some drunk shenanigans that took place in my bathroom a couple of weeks ago after my husband and i broke into a moscow mule bar set we got for christmas. the part i didn't include was him crumpled on the floor yelling 'i belong here!'. also he was throwing out some smeagol impressions that would rock you, but i don't think that's in derek hale's wheelhouse. or maybe it is? and i missed a huge opportunity? oh well. memory of this incident is fuzzy. 
> 
> forgive the grammatical/spelling/typos. i didn't run this by anyone before posting because i'm fucking lazy. 
> 
> anyway, how are you darling? you're looking well in this new year. simply exquisite


End file.
